Every Hero Needs a Sidekick
by grimwoode
Summary: Have I ever told you the story of how Iceland met his dog? Well now you're probably thinking, "Wait, Iceland has a dog?" or "Iceland doesn't have a dog! That's not canon!" Well of course not. This is fan fiction. Anything is possible with fan fiction! And in this particular AU, Iceland has a dog. Now will you let me tell you my story? Yes? Good. Enjoy!
1. Part 1

The plane had just landed in Reykjavik. Mr. Iceland was still frustrated about how the other Nordics at Norway's place behaved towards his news. Although he was disappointed in the results, the DNA test wasn't supposed to be a big deal. He only meant to share his test results so they can move on with their lives, but just as expected, they only took it as an excuse to treat him like a child again. Sometimes I think he puts too much value into how they treat him, but sometimes the Nordics can be real nor-_dicks_, amirite? (Yeah, that one didn't get much of a laugh out of him either.) Poor kid…

But back to my story.

Mr. Iceland was walking home from the airport. He walks _everywhere_. He's not very big on motor travelling. He says some bullshit about liking the "alone" time, but he's never really alone. Obviously I'm always right behind him, but he likes to forget that I exist. Oh crap, I'm doing it again.

_Mr. Iceland was walking home from the airport_. I remember trying to cheer him up with some of my bawdier jokes, but getting bummed on by the others made him moodier than usual. At least, until he got distracted (much like myself. _Crap_.)

Anyway, he was just walking past an alley between the local pharmacy and a pub, when he heard a racket. At first, I thought it was just going to be some drunk that stumbled out of the wrong door at the pub, but Iceland stopped and started peering into the dimly lit alley. I _told _him that going in there was a bad idea! (What if the drunk was violent?) But he just waved me off and started walking towards the rustling sound at the back of the alley. He must have heeded my warning to _some_ degree, because it was agonizingly slow as he cautiously moved forward.

The noise seemed to be coming from a pile of trash next to the dumpster. (Who the fuck couldn't be bothered to put their trash _in_ the dumpster?) As Iceland got closer, a rattling sound started. Whatever was under the trash pile was getting nervous. As it should. If that thing attacks the kid, I'll gladly teach it some manners!

A small whimper was heard. Iceland kneeled down beside the dumpster and started sifting through the trash pile. He groaned in disgust as the rattling got more desperate, but whatever it was, it wasn't trying to escape. Layers of trash were peeled away to reveal the saddest and ugliest little creature I have ever had the displeasure of seeing. It wasn't human. That much was obvious, but what it actually was, was much less certain. Was it a dog? A cat? Heck, maybe it was a tiny troll, for all we knew. Sometimes when I'm stal— uh, I mean, _spying_ — on Mr. Norway, I overhear him talking to some Mr. Troll, but I've never actually seen this "Mr. Troll" character. But there's a first for everything, right?

It didn't matter what it was, though, since Mr. Iceland clearly took pity on it. I perched myself on his shoulder as he tried to unmangle the mass in front of him. It looked like it was covered in fur in some places, completely matted with mud and crap. Some patches weren't, and instead were scabbed over. Oh look, a tail!

So whatever it was, it had a tail.

Iceland started coaxing the frightened thing, probably trying to calm it down or something. It was trembling violently. It was such a frail little creature. It couldn't have been more than 10 pounds in its malnourished state. I certainly didn't pity it… But Iceland clearly did.

"Stay here while I go into the pharmacy," he said as he turned to me.

I couldn't exactly say no, so I just dropped down to the ground while Mr. Iceland scampered back out of the alley. It was much creepier without him there what with the darkness and the ominous sounding music coming out of the pub (clearly the owner had bad taste). The trash-racket coming from the creature only made the creepiness worse. It was obvious the damn beast was getting scared too, since its whimpering increased. Iceland was only gone a few minutes. He came back with a cheap blanket he bought, kneeled back down beside the thing and picked it up as gently as he could as it whined.

"What the hell are you doing, kid?"

"I'm taking it to a vet," he replied. I was frankly too shocked to come up with a snarky reply. The nearest vet was almost a mile away. Did he really want to carry this stinky mess all the way there? Probably. Besides, it was getting late, so it was probably closed anyway. Not that he would listen to me. (Who in their right mind listens to a smart-ass bird?) Kid can try as hard as he may, but he can't disguise his empathy forever.

He walked for an extra hour and a half out of way to discover that — lo and behold — I was right! The vet had been closed since 5 pm, and it was now 10h30 pm. The thing had stopped whimpering somewhere along the way. (I stopped paying attention and started humming Lady Marmalade repeatedly.) Mr. Iceland stood in front of the building for a few minutes before finally deciding on a _brilliant_ course of action.

"I guess I'll just have to return tomorrow at 9," he said.

"Okay, good. Maybe you can leave it here on their doorstep. It's not like it can move on its own anyway."

"I can't do that, Mr. Puffin. I already carried it all the way here. I can't just abandon it here."

"Why not?"

"It's just not ethical. I'll bring it home with us."

Hallelujah! The kid has a heart of gold. I figured there wasn't much of a point arguing with him, so I just let him have his way. What's the worst that can happen, right?

The absolute worst, as it turns out. But I'll get to that later. Much later.

Three hours later and we're finally home. Finally. He fumbled with the keys for a while because he wouldn't put the thing down to unlock the door. It was so incredibly and undoubtedly frustrating. By this point, the thing started _growling_. I started thinking it was a canine, but not of the domestic sort, such as a wolf or a coyote. They weren't prone to trekking through the city, but there's a first for everything. (Woah, _déjà vu _anyone? I am amazed the word "_déjà vu_" is even in my vocabulary. Shut up. Don't judge me.)

Once we were in the house, I went to perch on the dining room and I watched as poor Mr. Iceland wandered around the house looking for old newspapers. Having found some, he laid them down in multiple layers on the floor in the entrance of the house. All this while holding the sad looking creature in it's blanket. When he finished setting newspapers down, he finally put it down on top. Now with his hands free, he went adventuring into his old friend the refrigerator and took out some leftover grilled chicken from three nights ago. He chopped the chicken up, put it in the bowl, and put the bowl down near the thing I am still assuming is a dog. After all, it's not like he had any kibble around for St— Woah! That was almost a spoiler. Close call. He then laid a bowl of tap water next to the bowl of chicken. Wow. I wish he went through that much trouble for me once in a while. (Recovery = nailed it.)

Anyway, Iceland wound up sleeping on the couch to stay close to it overnight. I wasn't very far away myself, since I usually tend to nest in the crook of Iceland's knees to sleep. (What? Despite what certain people might think, I'm actually quite attached to him.) Even though Iceland was knocked out the moment he laid his head down, I couldn't sleep a wink all night. That _thing_ kept kicking and twitching and whimpering and growling. I had half a mind to snap it's scrawny little neck about two dozens times during the night. But I knew helping the helpless beast was making Mr. Iceland happy, so I reluctantly let it squirm in its little nest of thin blankets and newspapers at my own personal expense.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: I've never actually been to Iceland, so if any of you have and would like me to correct something, let me know.

Don't ask me why Mr. Puffin is humming Lady Marmalade. For some reason, it was just the first song to pop into my head while writing it :|

As always, feedback is always greatly appreciated (both positive _and_ negative) so don't be shy!


	2. Part 2

**Warning**: Mild gore ahead, so if you're sensitive to that, you're warned. There's also sarcasm, so if you're sensitive to that you too, then you might as well not read the fic.

* * *

The next morning I woke up Mr. Iceland fairly early, since I assumed he would want to drop the dog-like thing off at the vet's as soon as it opens. The sooner it was out of my feathers, the better. Iceland noticed that it hadn't touched the food he left out, but that it drank at least half the water that was in the bowl. Neither of us could understand why it wouldn't eat since it looked like it had been starving for days, but at least if it died of starvation, it couldn't be his fault.

Iceland picked up the bowls and pet the creature as it shivered. It seemed to close its eyes, almost enjoying the contact. It didn't seem afraid anymore, but it still trembled so violently, I could hear its bones rattling. Having cleaned up after it, Iceland started making himself breakfast. You guys may have forgotten what upset Iceland the night before, but I certainly haven't.

"D'you think the others will try to call you while you're out?" I asked.

Iceland continued to fix his breakfast in silence. I knew from experience that when the kid got moody like this, it was best to let him talk at his own pace. This is something the others barely seemed to grasp. Especially the Dane. That one will just keep egging him (haha) until Iceland finally walks away from him in annoyance. Now _that's_ a pig's head, if I ever saw one.

"If they do, I won't answer them," he replied.

Well that was only to be expected. Like his "brother" (he didn't like it when he called him "little brother"), Iceland was prone to delivering the silent treatment when someone upsets him. I tend to get kind of chatty, so I generally avoid setting him off. Gets lonely talking to oneself.

The morning went by as usual. Iceland and I ate while chatting about politics and recent economical or social developments. Sometimes we talk about when we should take our next trip to the countryside. I like mornings. It's the time of day when Iceland talks to me most, and even if he might talk to me less later in the day, I know he still listens. It always shows when we have our morning talks. They always seem too short to me, but the day's work has got to start at some point.

We didn't even talk about the dog (thing), but I knew that's what was on today's to do list: getting it checked in with the vet. So after cleaning up the kitchen and tidying up a few things, he picked up the sad little creature and we were off to the vet's clinic again.

* * *

We were at the door by 9 am sharp. The dog started whimpering again. It somehow knew that it was going to get poked and prodded in all sorts of places that shouldn't be poked or prodded. The walls of the inside were striped in two tones of light blue and there was a white fake-marble counter where a receptionist was sitting. She watched as a strange looking teenager walked in with a puffin at its back and a matted piece of trash in its arms. For some reason I can't entirely grasp, she looked surprised.

"Good morning. I'm wondering if you would be able to help me," Iceland said to her.

"Uh." She blinked stupidly. "Sure. Of course. How can I help you?"

Iceland then went ahead and explained to her how he came to find the dog, and how he'd taken it home overnight to watch over and feed. She only seemed to be processing half of what he said. She didn't seem all that bright, and this is coming from a _bird_.

"Well, we don't usually take strays, but I'll fetch the doctor for you," she finally replied.

I waited until she left the room. "What kind of vet won't take in strays? The kind that cares about profits before helping animals, that's what." I know I'm whining, but my patience has run dangerously low overnight. "I'm sure there are other vets in Reykjavik. Let's go there instead."

Iceland was bouncing on the balls of his feet while he waited. I had perched myself on his shoulder when he initially walked in. "I already came this far. I don't see any sense in leaving now," he replied.

"But kid, you realize this means they expect someone to pay, right? Why else wouldn't they take in strays? They'll probably just put it down if no one pays."

"Then I guess I'll have to pay the bill."

Unbelievable. Well, actually, considering the beginning of our own humble relationship, it is very believable, but I always felt special, ya know? It never occurred to me that he would want to save another sick animal. I suddenly found myself worrying about what would happen if Iceland decided to adopt it, and lets face it — my mind went into some very dark corners during this time.

But I didn't have time to fret over it much longer. The vet soon showed up to see Iceland and the stray he brought into his "pristine" and "high-status" clinic.

"So young man. What seems to be the matter?"

"You can call me Emil. I was wondering if you could help this little guy." Iceland showed the doctor the thing. I noticed a distinct look of disgust cross over the man's face before it quickly disappeared again. Figures.

"Well, this dog is in a very unfortunate condition." Could he sound any more pompous? "We would have to shave all its fur off and check its wounds for infections. Follow me, please."

Iceland followed him into a sterile-looking room. The doctor motioned for Iceland to set the dog down on the stainless steel table in the middle. It was surrounded by devices that quickly reminded me of those torture chambers I see in those shitty horror movies.

The first thing the doctor did was pat the dog's limbs down. He explained he was looking for fractures to be aware of while shaving it. It turned out that one of its hind-legs was fractured. That explains why it would barely move and didn't try to escape the night before. Maybe that's why it kept twitching, too…

When the doctor was satisfied that there were no other fractures, he went on to shave off its mud and crap matted fur. This was when we found the open sore in the middle of its back infested with maggots, and Iceland turned white. This thing was in his house. Oh boy.

The vet cut straight to the point: "Well, Emil. I want to help the poor boy as much as you do, but it won't be free. In fact, depending on how much treatment he needs, it could be quite expensive. A more economical treatment would be to put him to sleep. This decision is in your hands."

When Iceland heard the man say "economical treatment," his face turned red with anger, as quickly as it had blanched from shock from seeing the maggots.

"I won't pay to have him put down. I'll pay for whatever treatment it takes to make him better." I got to give the kid some credit, here. The tone of his voice made me think that I would have shit my pants if I were in that man's shoes.

"Very well then. You can leave your name and phone number with my receptionist. I'll have her call you when I have news."

"Thank you." Iceland gave his home phone number to the receptionist on his way out. He wasn't expecting to leave the country for a few weeks anymore.

When he got home, he noticed he had three missed calls and seven messages on his cell. He didn't really bother checking to see who they were from. He just put his cell on silent and started to work on his usual national duties.

I started searching the house for maggots…


	3. Part 3

A week of incessant calls and messages from the other Nordics went by. They even tried calling his house phone at some point, which Iceland resented, since he was still waiting for a call from the vet. He still wasn't ready to talk to them, and I was starting to feel bad for them. Especially Norway. I took a peek at the kid's phone one day as the messages were coming in to see what they were texting him, and it was all very apologetic and made me wonder how long he was going to do this to them. Mr. Iceland has always been very good with animals, but his people skills need work.

It was after this long week of giving the Nordics the cold-shoulder that the vet clinic finally called him back. Since the kid wasn't answering his phone anymore, he let the call go to voicemail and got the message when he checked his voicemail in the morning. The vet's receptionist just left a message saying the dog was ready for pick-up and that Dr. Hilmarsson would discuss the details in person. He called them back and arranged to come the next day when he would have free time in his schedule, and they agreed.

So the next morning, Iceland walks back to the clinic. He had no idea what to expect the bill to come up to, but having checked his personal bank accounts, he hoped it wouldn't exceed 42,000 kr. (After all, he still had to be able to feed us.)

We arrived by 9h30 am. When we walked in, the dumb receptionist's face lit up with an oh so unusual look of surprise. I myself was not so surprised to notice that there was absolutely no one in the waiting room. You would think a vet clinic would have a bustle of noises coming from _somewhere_, but this place was eerily quiet. I thanked my lucky feathers I never got sick.

I perched on Iceland's shoulder and waited.

"You are Emil, correct? Let me fetch Dr. Hilmarsson for you," and she left without waiting for his "thanks" in reply.

She wasn't gone very long. When she returned she asked him to follow her and she led him to the same clinical shitty horror movie room we were in before.

"You may sit here until the doctor is ready to see you," she said as she gestured to the purple plastic chair in the corner.

Once again, I waited until she was out of earshot.

"What could he possibly be doing? It's not like he's got a 'client' to handle!"

"Puffin, please—"

"I just don't see why he has to make you wait! Like you hadn't been waiting long enough as it is…"

"I don't mind, really. It'll be over with s—"

This time, he wasn't interrupted by me. It was the vet walking into the room that shut him up. For a brief moment, I hoped that he overheard what I said. (I felt that he deserved to know what I quack I thought he was.) He was clutching the trembling dog in his arms, he walked around the stainless-steel table and set him down on it. The pathetic creature slipped and clawed, struggling to remain in a steady sitting position, especially with a bright green cast on its right hind-leg. It was almost adorable to watch.

At least until Iceland walked up to the thing and put his hands on either side of it to help it steady itself. The thing crawled up to his chest and cuddled itself there as close to the edge of the table as it could get without falling off. Seeing the two of them being close and seeing him being affectionate with it gave me an ache in my breast. He was never affectionate like that with me…

But this story isn't about me. (Can it be my turn next?)

"So how bad was it?" Iceland asked.

"Well," Dr. Hilmarsson paused before continuing. "As I already mentioned last week, his hind-leg was fractured, but that cast can probably come off after a couple more weeks." Probably? "Otherwise, if you take a closer look, you'll notice he's blind in his left eye…"

Iceland took the dog's head in his palms and while scratching gently the back of its ears, he tilted its head up to take a closer look. The left eye was a milky robin's egg colour, and it looked like a blank void. It contrasted sharply with the brown and healthy right eye. It somehow reminded me of the blackness of the alley we found it in, as though it reflected the creepiness of the alley with a contrast of colours. Needless to say, it looked creepy.

"Whatever wounds he had when you brought him in weren't infected luckily. The maggots most likely ate away at the dead flesh leaving healthy flesh to heal, but I cleaned the wounds as best I could and got rid of them. I ran blood tests to make sure there weren't any diseases or parasites, and I gave him antibiotics so he wouldn't get an infection after the maggots were removed. His tests came out clean so he's ready to go home."

Iceland was still observing the dog and didn't look up at the vet when he replied "I'm glad to hear it."

There was a moment of silence as Iceland continued to scratch the dog behind the ears. It was still trembling, but it didn't seem scared. The vet was observing Iceland, and I was observing the vet. (I still think he's a quack.) The vet looked like he was thinking, and he looked as though he noticed the melancholic look on Iceland's face.

"What do you intend to do after this?" he asked.

Iceland was expecting the question. We had just been talking about it in our chat this morning.

"He might just be a lost pet. I'll try to find his owner. He can stay at my place until then."

"So what if this dog is a stray and there is no owner to claim him. What will you do then?"

"Then I'll keep it."

Great. This was the worst that can happen I was talking about earlier. Iceland already barely pays attention to me, so can you imagine what it would be like for me if he had a needy dog to take care of too? I had already been prepared to hate this thing, and now I was going to have to live with it, since I was fairly certain that there was no owner.

My whining was interrupted by the vet: "Have you ever taken care of a dog before, Emil?"

"My brother had a dog when I was little. What breed is he? And how old is he?"

Dr. Hilmarsson did a sharp intake of breath, he tsk, and said, "well, I couldn't really gather much. He's obviously a mixed breed. Maybe part-labrador? If so, then he's small for his breed. He's not more than a year old, I can tell you that. He probably won't grow to be bigger than 14 kg when properly fed and fully grown. Poor thing would have died within a week if you hadn't found him."

There was another pause. It was obvious to me that Iceland was weighing his options between keeping the dog and trying to have it adopted. More importantly, he was dreading the "finance talk," since he had no idea how much it can cost him to check the dog out. The vet beat him to it.

"I seem to recall you said you would volunteer to pay for the treatments, Emil?"

Iceland finally looked up at the man. He locked his ice-blue gaze on the him, daring him to continue.

"The treatment of the dog — for all the tests, the antibiotics, and such — it comes up to 20,000 kr. I understand that you're a young man and that you may not have this sort of money readily available so I'm open to discuss payment options with you if you'd like."

So now he was a mortgage broker. This adventure just keeps getting better and better.

"Actually, I do have the money. I can pay debit, but if you prefer cash, I can bring it later today."

Oh, the look on his face! I wanted to preserve it. I told myself I'd paint a pretty picture of it as a memento when we got home. (I forgot.) It was the sort of look a man gets when he begins to question the foundations of his beliefs. I'm going on for too long about this, so I'll just move on with my story.

Iceland wasn't done, though. The price was below his maximum, and since he wanted the best treatment for the dog, he wanted to cover all of his bases.

"Did you vaccinate him when you gave him his treatments? Is he, ya know… fixed?"

"Uh, well… I haven't vaccinated him, but I could. It would cost more. And no, he's not fixed."

"Good. Then give him all the vaccines he might need. You can throw in a bag of kibble, a leash, and a collar too."

"Uh. Well, okay."

A shell-shocked man.

And he never even felt the shock of a shell, like Mr. Iceland once did. Dr. Hilmarsson was so far out of line with his judgemental crap, it was actually getting kind of funny to me.

So he proceeded to vaccinate the dog. An appointment was made to go back in 2 weeks and have the cast removed.

Iceland walked out of there with a dog on a leash (being carried, of course), a bag of dog food, a puffin at his side, and a lot less money in his personal bank account.

And the story's not even over yet!

* * *

**Author's Notes**:

kr. = the symbol for the Icelandic króna, the currency in Iceland (or at least that's what google told me…)

I would like to thank **Dalasport** for enlightening me about how much vet bills would cost in Icelandic krónur! Thank you so much :*


	4. Part 4

Once Iceland got home, he set the dog down on the floor and set down a glass of water in the spot where the dog slept last. He also laid down the same (now clean) blanket where the dog last slept, folded up nicely to give him a good cushion to lay on. Seeing him walk was as pathetic as you might imagine, but he managed to get around on his own just fine.

After setting up the dog's _temporary_ sleeping and eating arrangements, he proceeded to design and make posters to put up around Reykjavík. While he worked on the posters, the dog laid down on its blanket and napped for most of the day. It was still trembling. _God, _will the trembling ever end! But Iceland didn't pay any mind to the dog. Or to his cell phone beeping on the coffee table. I flew over the table and checked the message.

It was from Finland.

_Hey Icey, I know you must still be angry at us for teasing, but Nor is getting really worried… _

_It's been a week! _

_He thinks something bad's happened to you and he's coming over to make sure you're okay…_

_Ice?_

The screen went black. I couldn't see whatever messages came before that, but I knew that Iceland would want to know about this little nugget. "Hey, kid!"

The dog perked up at my yelling. I guess I startled him. Iceland was still on the computer, typing something up. I waited to see if he was going to respond before flapping over.

He must have been _really fucking focused_, because I could have sworn he didn't hear me.

"Hey _kid!_ Norway is coming to visit."

Iceland spun around. _That_ caught his attention.

"How would you know he's coming?"

"You got a text from Finland saying he's coming."

Now I _really_ got his attention. He finally got up from his chair and practically ran up to the coffee table and picked up his cell. For the first time in a week, he checked his messages. There were more than he thought. Most of them were from Norway, but a decent chunk were from Denmark too. Some were from Sweden or Finland.

The more recent ones were downright angry sounding, and he still wasn't in a mood to deal with them. But it's not like he had much of a choice anymore, because Norway's more recent texts were announcing his plans to travel, and judging from the last text sent from the airport in Oslo, he was going to be arriving in Reykjavík in about an hour.

There was a shitstorm coming his way, and he had no way to prepare for it.

At this moment, the dog got up and started wobbling towards us. (_So_ pathetic…) Iceland picked it up and started petting it and cooing at it. Yeah. _Cooing_.

"It'll be all right… He's probably not _that_ angry, right? … I can just talk to him… calmly… yeah…"

Okay, well maybe he was just talking to himself. It's a thing Nations do sometimes where they're alone for too long. He knew he would have to face his brother eventually. He just thought he'd be able to do it on his terms.

He only had an hour until his brother arrived.

So for the duration of that hour, he put off making posters in favour of cleaning up the house to distract himself. While he bustled around the house, the dog followed him, getting a bearing for his surroundings, learning the layout of the house. You know. The thing dogs do when they're introduced to a new home. Not that he was staying here. Why would Iceland need a dog when he's already got me?

Unfortunately, Iceland isn't particularly messy to begin with, so cleaning the house didn't take very long. When he finished, he plopped himself down on the couch in his living room. A look of dread had stamped itself on his face.

"You shouldn't have ignored him like that," I said.

"Yeah, I can see that, thanks."

He leaned his head back and sighed. A whimper came from the dog at his feet, so he picked him up and set it down next to him on the couch. He started absently running his hand over the dog's head. I'm beginning to think this thing should have a name.

His phone buzzed.

And this time, he jumped for it. Almost knocked me off the coffee table, too. I watched and waited patiently while he unlocked the phone and read the text. It was from Norway, obviously. The plane had just landed. He'll be here in half an hour.

Iceland groans. "Oh my Gods, what am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say to him when he gets here?!"

"Chill."

"Seriously, Puffin. What do I do?"

I'm just a puffin. All my siblings died years ago. How the fuck should I know?

"Just explain to him you've been busy saving a stray dog. _That_ will soften him." Not really. Norway mostly had a soft spot for _cute_ things, and this thing was far from cute right now. I was just fishing for ideas here.

But Iceland was actually considering it. His brow furrowed in thought, and he leaned forward on his knees. He hadn't been sitting like this very long until he got back up and started pacing. He was intently focused on his own thoughts, and I just watched helplessly, my head bobbing with his movements. I wasn't the only one. Apparently the dog started doing the same. He even had his tongue flapping out of his mouth as he sat there watching Mr. Iceland slowly lose his mind.

Then Iceland piped up with a statement I've only heard in my dreams.

"You're right Mr. Puffin."

As true as that was, I was still surprised to hear it from him. "Come again?"

He stopped pacing and was facing the dog and me, with his hand propped up on his hip. A true sign of a true drama queen.

"I've ignored them for over a week, and the only thing I have to show for it is a dog. I don't have anything else I can use."

Seriously? After the countless brilliant ideas I've had over the years, _this_ is the one he's holding on to.

"Alternatively, it's not like Norway hasn't given Denmark or Sweden the cold shoulder before. You can tell him 'This is all your fault! You made me this way!', 'cause you know… Leading by example?"

"I'm not putting the blame on him. It's my fault for ignoring them. I should have at least acknowledged their messages." He mumbled that last part, but he said it loud enough for me to hear.

"Yeah, 'cause the rest of the world has done such a great job acknowledging _you_. Do you still keep that collection of maps you're not on? Let's go find them."

"No! I don't want to be looking at stupid old maps! I'll handle this."

He started pacing again, but at least he's not panicking anymore. Just waiting. That's just the magic talking to a bird has on people. Birds are great… especially puffins.

Families truly do have a way of making people anxious, huh.

There wasn't long to wait though because this is when the doorbell rang and the dog started barking.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Last chapter coming next week!


	5. Part 5

Iceland didn't hesitate to open the door. The last thing he wanted was to make things worse. As it was, the dog just kept on barking, which couldn't possibly make Norway's mood much better. When Iceland undid the latch on his door, it swung open before he could lay his hand on the knob, and his brother strolled in. As much as he wanted to respect Iceland's boundaries, he wasn't about to wait for an invitation.

While Iceland expected his brother to be sporting an angry glare, instead there was a look of frustration with just a hint of curiosity. He looked at Iceland standing in front of him, saw that he was fine and not at all in danger, and went on to look around at the rest of the house. Shutting the door behind him, he noticed the dog standing at Iceland's heels, which had finally shut up when the door opened.

"Why the hell did you get such an ugly dog?"

"Uh…" Iceland was caught off guard by the question. He expected an outburst of anger, a rant, or a lecture, but he didn't expect that.

While Iceland stood stunned, Norway knelt down to take a closer look at the dog. It had started trembling again, so Norway tried to coax it into trusting him, patiently waiting for it to approach him. The dog eventually decided that Norway wasn't dangerous and wobbled a little closer to sniff the hand that was extended towards him. Norway gave the dog a slight pet before standing back up, facing Iceland. He must have recognized that Iceland was nervous.

So he wrapped his arms around Iceland and hugged him. Shaking his stunned expression, Iceland eventually returned the hug. They stood like that for a while.

God, why are families are so complicated?

"Iceland, I—"

"I'm sorry for ignoring everyone, okay? I just really hate it when you all treat me like a child!"

"I know."

Even though Iceland sounded frustrated, there wasn't a hint of anger in Norway's voice. Whatever anger he felt, he left at home.

They broke apart, and Norway laid his hand on Iceland's head. Iceland was still avoiding eye contact.

"I know I must have sounded angry in my texts, and truth is, I really was. But I didn't come here to be angry, I came here to apologize."

Well, that caught Iceland enough by surprise, because he finally looked up at Norway. As touching as this moment was for them, neither of them were smiling. Both of them were waiting for the other to speak.

"Why are you here to apologize? Shouldn't I be the one apologizing to the rest of you?"

With a sigh, Norway replied, "No, because you're right. We shouldn't continue treating you like a child because you're not a child anymore. And you haven't been for a long time now."

Norway paused to sit on the couch, leading Iceland to sit next to him. At this point, I was perched on the armchair near by. The dog wobbled over, and Iceland picked him up to set him down in his lap where it could tremble more comfortably.

"But even though you're not a kid anymore, you're not exactly an adult either," he continued. "And just because you're not a kid anymore, doesn't mean we stop being brothers. I will always be your brother, got it?"

Their two stern-looking gazes locked. Norway was daring Iceland to protest.

Because here's the thing, folks. Norway loves his brother to death and back, and Norway has this ridiculous notion that Iceland doesn't want anything to do with him, when in fact, Iceland also loves his brother to death and back. So both love each other and both have this twisted mindset that the other doesn't care. Norway wanting Iceland to call him "Big Brother" is just Norway wanting Iceland to acknowledge him. Deep down, Norway is afraid that they will end up just like England and America. It doesn't take a genius to figure this out, but for some reason, Iceland never clued in. At least he never let on that he knew. In the end, they're both making a mountain out of an ant-hill, and everyone except them has realized it. There, I said it.

So even though Norway was daring Iceland to protest, there wasn't anything to protest in the first place.

"I know that," Iceland replied. "I just don't understand why I have to call you 'Big Brother'. It's demeaning."

Oh no, he went there.

"Then I simply won't call you 'Little Brother'." That's a shitty conclusion to an argument, but hey, they have centuries to work this out.

With this less-than-satisfying end to their argument, Norway's gazed moved down to the ugly piece of crap in Iceland's lap. "But again, when and why did you get such an ugly dog?"

"Oh." Iceland had forgotten about the question. "Actually, he's a stray that I found on my way home. I brought him to a vet last week, and now I want to try to find his owner. Or get him a new one…"

"And you're keeping him with you until then?"

"Uh. Yeah."

"Do you even know how to take care of a dog?"

"Uh…" Remember when Iceland told the vet he could take care of a dog? Truth is, he doesn't even remember what Norway's old dog's name was. He was planning on… _winging _it (hihi). "Do you, um… by any chance… remember?"

At that, Norway chuckled, ruffled Iceland's hair and said, "yeah, I remember."

With a sigh of relief, Iceland replied "Oh thank the gods. You wouldn't mind staying here and helping me take care of him until I find him an owner, right?"

"Well, I didn't exactly pack for a long-term visit, but I suppose I could."

"Great! Thanks." Iceland put the dog down and got back up. "I'll just get back to working on those posters then."

So now Iceland and Norway worked together to make posters for the dog. Pictures were taken, printers were broken, and posters were printed. The next day, they went around Reykjavík putting up the posters, while I stayed at home and kept an eye on the cripple. (Oh, shut up. So far as I can tell, he can't walk properly, and that makes him a cripple.)

* * *

After a week, at the appointed time, Iceland and Norway brought the dog back into the vet for a check-up and to have his cast removed. Dr. Hilmarsson said the dog was in good condition and no longer needed his medical attention from here on out. For about a month, Norway helped Iceland take care of the dog, helped him train him, and taught everything he could in the short time they had. After that, Norway had to get back home, but not before making Iceland promise to keep in touch with them this time.

Over the last several months, at three o'clock sharp, Iceland would take the dog out for a walk. I would always follow. We used to just have our talks in the mornings, but now we had our talks in the afternoons too while he walked the dog. It was always very pleasant.

Over the last several months, Iceland remembered to feed him and play with him, too. The dog's fur grew out in an elegant silver-blond colour. His blind eye blended in perfectly with the colour of his fur and made it much less daunting and creepy.

Even though I was afraid that having the dog around would mean Iceland would spend less time with me, I was surprised that it was the other way around. The resentment I felt towards the not-so-ugly-anymore thing slowly dissipated, and I eventually started to like him, but it took several months.

After several months, Iceland received no calls from past owners or for new owners. But even if he did get a call, he had grown attached to him, so if someone did call wanting to reclaim their dog, or wanting to adopt him, Iceland would have been reluctant to let him go. Honestly, I would have even been sad to see him leave too.

Truth be told, the house was more lively with him around. Iceland smiled more, and that was enough to make me happy. After several months, Iceland went around the city to take down all the posters still left standing and decided to adopt the annoyingly cuddly pooch.

And this, kids, is the story of how Mr. Iceland met his dog Stallone.

[THE END]


End file.
